


of nightmares and daydreams

by flowersinxeirhair



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boarding School, Fluff and Angst, Grantaire Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-21 02:28:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6034597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersinxeirhair/pseuds/flowersinxeirhair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>As the door opened, all three of them stopped short in their individual activities- Enjolras’ fingers freezing an inch above his keyboard, Combeferre looking up from his book, and Courfeyrac sitting up straighter</i>
</p>
<p>  <i>A boy stood in the doorway, frozen under their stares. He had an artful mess of inky curls about his face, and was looking up at them with sharp, dark eyes. His lips parted in something caught between shock and fear, probably at being suddenly pinned under such scrutiny. </i></p>
<p>  <i>After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, the boy opened his mouth as if to say something, but soon thought the better of it. He turned around quickly, and walked out again, shutting the door behind him.</i></p>
<p> </p>
<p>the boarding school au that no one asked for but i think we all needed</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prelude

_Prelude_

  


Courfeyrac was lying on his bed, flicking aimlessly through one of Combeferre’s textbooks with no real intent of reading a word, but smiling occasionally at the odd stock photo.  He mused aloud, “I thought the new kid would’ve come by now.”

Neither Enjolras nor Combeferre pretended they didn’t know what he was talking about. They’d been awaiting the arrival of their new roommate since Laurent had left at the end of last term, leaving an empty space in their dorm.

No one really missed Laurent; there wasn’t much to miss. The only time they’d ever really see him was when he was asleep, but aside from then, he came up with any excuse to be anywhere but their dorm. Maybe it was something to do with how close-knit Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Combeferre were, even though they never went out of their way to exclude Laurent. In fact, they always extended their invitations to him when he was around; more often than not, he wasn’t. He was a nice enough person, for sure, and would engage in friendly conversation should it arise. They just weren’t close, and didn’t share a lot of the same opinions.

It came as somewhat of a surprise when the boy had announced his departure, but there were no emotional send-offs, or even explanations. One day they’d simply come back to a pristinely made bed and a wall entirely empty of Laurent’s football posters.

They’d been awaiting the arrival of the new boy all day in anxious curiosity- that is to say, Courfeyrac had- and by lights out, he was late.

Enjolras shrugged indifferently in response.

Combeferre made a thoughtful hum, as he so often did, and looked up at Courfeyrac from his exercise book. “I suppose he must’ve been held up.”

Courfeyrac echoed Combeferre’s hum, and shut the book, turning his head on the pillow, meeting Enjolras’ gaze, then Combeferre’s in turn. “I wonder what he’s like.”

“Hopefully not an arse,” Combeferre replied flippantly.

“Or a BNP supporter,” Enjolras added, and Courfeyrac snorted affectionately.

They continued in their way of amiable silence until it was past eleven, and they turned out the  large overhead lights to give the house mother the illusion that they were in bed. Madame Hucheloup wouldn’t care too much to find them still awake and rarely did rounds to check.

They weren’t all too worried about keeping things discreet, and each kept on their small bedside lamps.

“It’s getting late,” Courfeyrac observed.

Enjolras arched a brow without looking up from his laptop. “So go to bed.”

“No, I mean, shouldn’t the new guy be here by now?”

“Hm,” Enjolras replied absently,”S’pose so. Why are you so concerned?”

“Why aren’t you? We’re going to have to share a room with this guy for like, two or three years.”

“Well, it didn’t make much difference with Laurent-”

As the door clicked open, all three of them stopped short in their individual activities- Enjolras’ fingers freezing an inch above his keyboard, Combeferre looking up from his book, and Courfeyrac sitting up straighter.

A boy stood in the doorway, frozen under their stares.

His lips parted in something caught between shock and fear, probably at being suddenly pinned under such scrutiny.

He was of no peculiar height or weight, although it did not go unnoted that his nose looked an odd shape for his face, as though it had been broken one too many times, and his lips were simultaneously too pale and too purpled.  He had an artful mess of inky curls about his face, and was looking up at them with sharp, dark eyes.His clothes were tattered and plain, as was the one small trunk he held in front of his body with white knuckles.

For a moment, Enjolras found himself wondering how the boy’s parents were able to afford such a schooling as theirs if they couldn’t even afford neat clothes, but quickly pushed such judgemental thoughts to the back of his head.

After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, the boy opened his mouth as if to say something, but soon thought the better of it. He turned around quickly, and walked out again, shutting the door behind him.

The three of them shared confused glances.

Combeferre murmured, “What was that about,” and it wasn’t a question. No one offered an answer anyway, too busy staring at the door as if it could give an explanation.

It didn’t.

They were left to wonder in confusion for three long minutes and twenty seconds that felt more like hours, until the boy reappeared.

Courfeyrac being Courfeyrac, leapt to his feet to greet him.

The boy pushed right past him and moved to the spare bed. He placed his trunk down, purposefully keeping his gaze down on the case, and his back turned to them.

Courfeyrac’s mouth froze around a small ‘o’ shape for a minute before he turned on his heel to face the boy’s hunched back.

“Hi,” he tried, hesitant.

The boy’s hands faltered a moment, but he replied a quiet, “Hey.”

“It’s real nice to meet you,” Courf began again, but the boy didn’t respond.

Courfeyrac glanced to Combeferre, who furrowed his brow, to Enjolras, who stood up, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“Don’t be rude,” Enjolras challenged.

The boy flinched, but remained silent, still carefully unfolding his things.

Enjolras scoffed incredulously. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

Combeferre could tell the boy had only unpacked half his things, but he closed his trunk and tucked it under his bed nonetheless before turning to face the room, a small plastic bag with a hairbrush, toothbrush and a few small bottles inside clutched in one hand.

Combeferre cleared his throat, placing a hand on Enjolras’ arm as if to calm him down. “Sorry about Enjolras. He’s just tired.”

Enjolras scoffed, folding his arms over his chest. The boy tracked the movement with his eyes.

“Anyway,” Courfeyrac began cautiously with his warm smile, “Looks like we’re your roommates. I’m Courfeyrac, this is Combeferre, and over there is a grumpy Enjolras. It’s nice to meet you...”

“R,” the boy filled in the gap, with little more conviction in his voice.

“R?” Enjolras echoed before Courfeyrac was able to respond. “Your name is a letter?”

R’s gaze hardened. “To you it is.”

“You realise we’ll find out your full name at registration, right?”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre warned. “He wants to go by R.”

Enjolras sighed, giving the wall a long-suffering look before turning his attentions back to R. “The three of us have known each other since nursery, we’re close. Keep your part of the room tidy, and don’t come in or out too late or early. And try not to be a dick.”

With that, he returned to his laptop.

R arched a brow, but nodded squarely and murmured, “Excuse me,” before ducking into the bathroom.

The second the door had clicked shut, the pair of them rounded on Enjolras.

“Well, that was a little harsh,” Combeferre began sternly, folding his arms over his chest.

From the bathroom, the muffled sound of the pipes working started up, accompanied by the barely-noticeable sound of the tap running.

Enjolras shrugged one shoulder, not bothering to look up from his laptop screen.

“I don’t like him,” he declared.

Courfeyrac frowned. “We’ve barely met him.”

“Well, he’s not made a very good first impression, has he?”

Courfeyrac and Combeferre shared a knowing look, curling up next to each other at the end of Enjolras’ bed.

“Because our first impression of _you_ was so great,” Courf drawled.

Enjolras rolled his eyes, still tapping away at his keyboard. “I was _four._ We all know better now.”

Enjolras had thrown a ball at Combeferre’s head, who’d fallen into Courfeyrac. Despite the fact that it was just a foam ball (as Enjolras regularly reminded them), the two boys had spent the rest of the day in the nurse’s office and Enjolras had to make apology cards for them both. Courfeyrac had admired his use of crayon, and forgave him in a heartbeat. Combeferre had to shake his hand firmly and tell him sternly that _it was okay, he knew it was an accident, but please don’t do it again, my glasses nearly broke._ The next day, they were playing an elaborate game of pretend together; they were undercover spies, going by their last names so everything was kept Top Secret. They hadn’t been able to shake the habit since—it had got to the point where ‘Julien’ didn’t feel at all like Enjolras’s name, nor ‘Gabriel’ Courfeyrac’s or ‘Luc’ Combeferre’s.

Courfeyrac chuckled at the memory, and nudged Enjolras with his toes. While he didn’t look happy about it, Enjolras dragged his gaze away from the screen and up to his friends.

“All we’re saying,” Combeferre began.

“Is that you ought to give him a chance,” Courfeyrac finished.

Enjolras shivered. His friends were creepy sometimes.

When he didn’t respond, Combeferre adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose, glaring at Enjolras meaningfully. “Enjolras.”

“Alright, whatever,” Enjolras waved them off, flicking his gaze back down to his screen, “But I’m wary.”

Combeferre smiled victoriously. Courfeyrac’s thoughts were clearly elsewhere as he frowned into the rest of the room.

“Do you think he’s okay in there?” he wondered aloud.

“Why?” Combeferre asked.

Courfeyrac shrugged. “’S probably nothing,” he began, but he still looked concerned, “He’s probably brushing his teeth or something, but- the tap’s been running this whole time.”

  


 

Grantaire stood hunched over the sink.

Two pumps of soap.

Scrub palms.

Scrub the backs.

Between the fingers.

Rinse twice under the hot tap.

Repeat.

He knew he didn’t have OCD. He’d done his research—and he wasn’t exactly eager to tack another name on the end of his diagnosis. This wasn’t something he did regularly. And there were no other rituals. It was only sometimes that he got a little fearful. From time to time, he found himself very very aware. Of sounds, of smells, of his surroundings, and so on. It made him feel sick. On edge.

 Today had been a long day. He’d touched a lot of new things. And he felt dirty. His hands must have been covered in grime.  New germs and pathogens, unfamiliar dirt that his body wasn’t used to yet.

Soap, scrub, repeat.

Washing his hands helped him feel clean again. Calmer, somehow.He’d lost count of how many times he’d gone over his hands a while ago, but he could still hear the voices of his new roommates through the wall and it was so _loud_ , it went straight to his throat and prickled nausea just _there._

Soap, scrub, repeat.

He knew he’d get used to things here. He always did, in the end. It just took a little time to get there. Give him a fortnight or so, and he’d be his usual self. To an extent.

It was just a case of settling in, he told himself, once everything started to quieten down to a tolerable level. The lights seemed less harsh on his eyes, and he could hardly hear their voices or the sound of the keyboard clicking anymore.

He washed his hands twice more, because once didn’t quite feel safe enough, before shutting off the now searing-hot tap.

His hands were red raw and his fingertips were shrivelled, his nail beds pricking with tiny spots of blood from the scrubbing. But they seemed to have stopped shaking, he reasoned as the should-be-soft towel scratched uncomfortably at his tender hands.

He was fine, he told himself, and hid his toiletries right at the back of a cupboard, behind apple shampoo and hair gel and shaving cream and conditioner and aftershave and one two three four five six seven eight; one two three four five six seven eight.

Find a pattern. Apply it. Breathe.

In, out. In, out. One two three four five six seven eight.

The world clicked back into place.

The door didn’t look as big as it had before, and his head hurt a little less. He could do this, he reasoned, and braved the bedroom once more.


	2. second hand smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This nurse has given him so many leaflets; he’s going to have to find a very discreet bin to throw them in. He can’t just dump them in the one outside her office, she’d see that, and she’d be hurt by it. And he can’t toss them in the one in his room, because of his bloody roommates._   
>  _He wasn’t sure why they had such a problem with him, but chalked it up to some snooty class bullshit._   
>  _(This, of course, would have been a more likely theory if he hadn’t so regularly overheard the trio talking about equal rights and other such bullshit, but R has safely filed that information into a box at the back of his mind labelled ‘Shut Up, R’.)_

_second hand smoke_

  


The triumvirate’s knowledge of their new roommate was limited to a list of three things between the three of them.

Number one: R was short for René Grantaire.

Enjolras had thought the nickname was just his first initial, until he’d caught Combeferre chuckling at it and had him explain the pun. Enjolras would never tell anyone he thought so, but it was quite clever. Although, Enjolras couldn’t understand Ferre’s congeniality. Had he somehow forgotten how rude R had been about it? There hadn’t been any reason for him to be so hostile—Courf had been nothing if not welcoming when he’d arrived, and he’d still been clipped and boorish. There had been no need at all to be so unfriendly.

Kindness cost nothing, yet R acted like it was a precious commodity.

They shared very few classes with him, only Enjolras sharing half his maths lessons and Combeferre seeing him across the food tech room in enrichment activities. Courfeyrac and Feuilly were in his form group, and had been the first to learn his full name. It had taken some wheedling on Enjolras’s part to find it out, but the knowledge wasn’t worth his spit.

The boy wouldn’t answer to anything but R. Even the almost-camaraderie of using his surname wouldn’t command his attention. He stoutly ignored anyone until they used the nickname.

Enjolras couldn’t see what the big deal was, but even if he didn’t like the new boy, he could respect his choices so long as they were harmless. Not to mention how much easier it was just to use R, rather than to spend half a bloody hour calling ‘Rene’ across the hallway and getting strange looks from passers-by.

The second thing they knew about R was that he was very much out of his depth.

Enjolras knew it was wrong to make assumptions, and he tried not to make prejudgements, but R had done nothing to disprove them thus far. He had little money, and came from a rougher background than everyone else at the school, and did not try to hide it.

He had no idea what was happening at any given time. He landed himself in detention for skipping prep or second prep, being in the boarding house when he shouldn’t be, _not_ being in the boarding house when he really ought to have been. Like at four in the morning.

Javert, the head of sixth form, in particular had learned to keep an eye out for the ball of scruff and trouble that was R,  calling him out for the smallest mistakes that most of the students had stopped making in year seven.

What’s more, he couldn’t seem to comprehend the severity of his reprimands.

Enjolras almost enjoyed it when Javert told R he would be deducting house points for his missing registrations, and the newcomer had responded with a genuinely confused frown and a bold, “alright, but why am I supposed to care?”.

The trio hadn’t seen all that much of their new roommate after that. Most of his time was spent in detention or assisted study; Javert looming over his shoulder with a tight-lipped frown.

Passive aggressive notices were also cropping up in assemblies and registers. Everyone in the year knew they were aimed at R, but they were carefully worded so as not to single him out.

“Students are reminded that short and/or sloppily knotted ties are unacceptable uniform standard, and house points will be deducted for improper uniform.”

“We’ve noticed several students using their phones out of hours. This is a serious health and safety hazard, and anyone with their phone out in lessons or corridors will have it confiscated.”

“Any student not in the library or study room during their free periods will be penalised. Mrs Evans is touring visitors this week and it presents the school in a bad light to have students loitering in the halls or empty classrooms. Detentions will be assigned if you are found out of bounds.”

And so on.

He also wasn’t used to the small class sizes. He seemed overwhelmed at the attention he was given in lessons, and was very clearly confused when teachers actually gave a shit when his work wasn’t handed in, or he was asked to see them outside of class for extra tutoring.

In maths, R sat across the classroom from him, and always kept his head down. His pencil was always moving, but he never handed in work at the end of class, never seemed to be doing homework in class, so he really had no idea what R _did_ with his time.

The third and final thing they knew about R was that he smoked. A lot.

Combeferre was retelling the story of his physics teacher accidentally knocking Michael Hilford off his stool in period six, Courfeyrac’s arm slung over Enjolras’ shoulder, laughing himself silly.

Enjolras rolled his eyes, but was smiling too, watching Combeferre re-enact the situation animatedly with a fond look.

He was glad of his friends, and he wouldn’t trade them for anything in the world. They moved in sync, almost as one. They were each, in their own way, an extension and improvement of each other, and similarly, they were each flawed, and each trying.

He couldn’t imagine life without them at this point. He didn’t know who he’d _be_ if they had never been a part of his life.

And it was bizarre; they were each so different, excitable and calm and severe side by side by side. Perhaps that was what balanced them so well. Perhaps they didn’t need a reason. They could just be grateful that they had each other, and leave it at that.

Which was perhaps why Enjolras was taking the new addition to their room so hard.

Which was perhaps why he lost it so much when he caught R hanging out of their window with a cigarette dangling from his lips for the fourth time that week.

He tossed his bag down at the foot of his bed and crossed the room before anyone knew what was happening. Courfeyrac was still giggling at Combeferre’s story, both of them too distracted to see Enjolras snatch the cigarette from his calloused fingertips and toss it out the window.

“Um--?”

“You need to cut it out. I’ve had enough of this, do you hear me? You’re bloody lucky we haven’t reported you to Madame Hucheloup yet. Do you realise that it’s not just yourself you’re putting at risk here? All of us will get shit if our room smells of smoke, and holy shit, did you ever stop to think that one of us might have asthma, or god forbid, something more serious? You want to throw away your education, fucking fine, just don’t drag us down with you, do you understand me, Rene Grantaire?”

Silence.

Enjolras’s breathing sounded far too loud for his own ears.

R stepped down slowly, a dark look in his eyes that had Combeferre and Courfeyrac coming up behind Enjolras.

“R--” Courfeyrac began, low and warning.

“You have no idea, do you,” he muttered, looking at Enjolras like he was something he’d scraped off his boot. “You have no fucking clue.”

He snatched the carton of cigarettes from the windowsill and pushed his way through the trio, colliding with Enjolras’s shoulder forcefully enough that Combeferre had to stop him from running after him, a calming hand on the small of his back.

He flung the door open, and it clattered against the wall loudly.

“For the last time, it’s fucking R,” he called over his shoulder.

And he was gone into the crowds. The three of them shared a look.

Maybe they’d have to add a short temper to their list.

Of course, there were other, smaller moments they saw into the boy’s life, piecing together small, strange facts into some odd sort of collage.

Combeferre had once been alone in their room, Enjolras working late in the lounge where the Wi-Fi connection was strongest and Courf in the kitchen waiting for his fairy cakes to come out of the oven.

R had been in the bathroom, and perhaps unaware that Combeferre was just a wall across from him.

Over the sounds of the shower spray, and the creaking of old pipes, Combeferre was able to pick up a lilting voice with R’s gruff consonants and hard ‘a’ sounds sailing over a soft melody that juxtaposed everything else they knew about the boy.

It took a brief moment for Combeferre to realise that R wasn’t singing in English, his accent slightly rusty, but clear enough that he could recognise the lyrics to _Le Sud_.

Enjolras hadn’t believed him when he’d told him.

“Please. He doesn’t even take French, and even if he did, he’d never pay enough attention to have memorised a whole song,” he rolled his eyes.

But Combeferre insisted, and he’d never had any reason to lie to Enjolras.

(He’d found the song on YouTube, late one night, headphones in with the volume turned almost all the way down so that no one would hear)

(He stayed the rest of the night trying to put R’s gruffly northern, not-quite-Geordie accent to such a delicate melody)

Courfeyrac was the next to find out a small truth about the boy. Quite frankly, they should have anticipated it, given the amount of times R had been to made to leave class to wash the sharpie off his arms, but Courfeyrac had stumbled across his sketchbook one study period.

It wasn’t like he’d been rifling through R’s things, but their study desks were side-by-side, and the book was open on his desk, scraps of paper scattered about. Courfeyrac really couldn’t avoid seeing the beautiful portrait of a young girl with her eyebrow pierced. She must have been someone he knew before he came here, because piercings did not fly in St Myriel’s.

When R had returned from wherever he’d been and seen Courfeyrac eyeing the sketch, he’d shut the book immediately.

“That’s brilliant,” Courfeyrac had said.

“You really don’t have to try and like me at all, mate,” had been R’s response before he stuck his earphones in and proceeded to ignore everyone for the rest of the period.

If anyone were to ask, Enjolras would say that he kept such a close eye on R because he was bad news, but there were brief moments that he couldn’t shake the mental image of the boy first thing in the morning, hair sticking out at all angles and brown eyes sleepy and unfocused, or of him stepping out of the shower, all biceps and damp curls and dark happy trail—

No, R was bad news. And if Enjolras didn’t try and keep an eye out, all three of them would be punished for his mistakes.

That was all.

  


“I know you think that there’s Something, and it comes with a capital S, and that that’s why I’m doing so shit in class and whatnot. But truth is, whether or not I’ve been through shit, I’d still be an idiot. Quite frankly, I reckon the only reason you want me to open up isn’t because you think it’ll help, but just because you’re a nosy bint. And no offense, miss, but even if I did think you genuinely cared, you’re the last person I’d talk to if I decided to talk to anyone-- chances of which are looking slim to none right now. You middle-class twat.”

R didn’t say any of that, though it kept running through his mind in fragments and shards. He couldn’t, mostly because it would get him in much more trouble than it was worth, but also because the school nurse was _nice_. Nicer than his last one, who didn’t officially exist, and was just a first aid kit in the headmaster’s office or a phone call home.

This nurse has given him so many leaflets; he’s going to have to find a very discreet bin to throw them in. He can’t just dump them in the one outside her office, she’d see that, and she’d be hurt by it. And he can’t toss them in the one in his room, because of his bloody roommates.

He wasn’t sure why they had such a problem with him, but chalked it up to some snooty class bullshit.

(This, of course, would have been a more likely theory if he hadn’t so regularly overheard the trio talking about equal rights and other such bullshit, but R has safely filed that information into  a box at the back of his mind labelled ‘Shut Up, R’.)

“I have English next,” was the first thing R said to the nurse.

She’d sent a notice asking after him that lunch, and he’d really had nowhere else to go.

From the moment he knocked on the door, she was off like a shot, blahing on about “support” and “maybe some regular sessions?” and scarier things like “suicidal ideations” and “panic disorders”, which R had closed his ears to.

Then the bell went, signalling the end of lunch, and R said, “I have English next.”

He said this like a goodbye, and stood up to leave, and almost collided with someone walking in through the door.

A blonde, scowling someone.

R dropped his gaze, silently pleading “don’t fucking talk to me” six times before he was out the door.

The nurse called something after him that he didn’t hear, and he threw the flyers away in the bin outside her office.

He didn’t look back as he walked down the corridor, didn’t see the unreadable way Enjolras was looking at him. He didn’t want to.

The rest of his day was spent skilfully avoiding Enjolras; a talent he was becoming increasingly practised in. The nosy blonde bugger cropped up nearly everywhere, but R was compiling a map of Places He’d Never Seen Enjolras.

The drama studios. The art storage rooms. The second floor toilets by the maths rooms. The third study room. It went on.

Seeing Enjolras meant having to face his questions, which R was positive will have doubled after their encounter in the nurse’s office.

Unfortunately, hard as he tried to avoid it, there was no evading Enjolras after curfew. He slipped into room four just seconds before the house mother made her rounds, beelining for his bed.

Combeferre was still up, the dim light from his bedside lamp painting the walls with soft orange light and long shadows. He was flicking through a copy of Othello, a pencil clenched between his teeth and his brow furrowed in concentration.

R ignored him. He ignored Courfeyrac and Enjolras’s respective beds, turning to face the wall as he tugged his tie off, hanging it off the bedpost and unbuttoning his creased shirt.

He was half-undressed when a small voice from the adjacent bed piped up, “I didn’t know you were sick.”

R shut his eyes, sighing deeply. He pulled a heather-green shirt over his head and climbed into bed.

“I’m not,” he told Enjolras, and turned his light off.

R woke up breathless, shirt drenched and head spinning.

It took a long moment for his eyes to adjust to the brilliant darkness, and even longer to remember where he was.

He tried a deep breath on for size, and pushed his damp curls out of his face, arching his neck uncomfortably. A glance at his phone informed him that it was just past three thirty. He threw the duvet aside, swinging his legs over the edge of his mattress, staring at the hardwood floor and just breathing for a while. Waiting for the hazy thick fingers and soft clank of belt buckles to give way to hard-edged reality.

When he was feeling vaguely human again, having regained the feeling in his hands once more, he stood up and made for the bathroom. He could do with washing his face if he was going to try sleeping again.

  


 

Enjolras paused a step in front of the bathroom, cracked ajar and flooding light onto a slim fraction of the room. He peered inside, having to adjust the angle of his head before he caught sight of Grantaire.

He frowned.

Grantaire was dancing in the bathroom, wearing a too-big green shirt and a pair of dark boxer shorts, his sock-clad toes sliding over the flecked white tile. He held his arms above his head vaguely, and his eyes were closed in earnest, as he thumped his heel and his head to the bassline of water droplets in the drain by their window. He swayed to the melody of rainfall and car engines and some drunk lads wandering home after a night at the Rose and Crown. His hips dipped easily, his head rolling back on his neck, exposing a strip of flesh in a beautiful arc over his hip. He moved the to rhythm of the soft noises of the night, to the wind whistling through the trees, to a distant car alarm and to the beat of Enjolras’s heart.

It felt as though he’d been watching the boy dance for hours, before he shook himself awake, and knocked at the door as though he hadn’t been stood, peering through the crack to watch him for the last ten minutes.

R’s arms dropped to his sides instantly, and he whirled about on the balls of his feet to face the door. He glanced to himself in the mirror, checking his reflection.

Weary, spaced out, lost and exhausted and vacant and one two three four five six seven eight; one two three four five six seven eight.

He sighed, and pulled the door open. The harshly artificial bathroom lights suddenly illuminated Enjolras’s face.

He watched as his pupils shrunk to pinpricks at the sudden adjustment.

He stepped out of the way to let Enjolras in.

“Hey,” Enjolras stopped him with a hand on his arm.

His fingers felt like nothing at all; feather-light against his bare arm, but somehow still felt like they were branding his tawny skin with five, slender digits.

He dragged his gaze up to Enjolras’s face, his bright eyes dim with confusion and sleeplessness.

“Are you alright?” he asked, and his voice was softer than it ever had been.

Enjolras was an enigma. He was sharp edges and soft eyes and his voice was the voice of the lawyer that had granted his family benefits years ago, but with words that promised of a bright future and held all these _expectations_ , all these ideas for what R could be. He was an oxymoron by nature, an angry voice wrapped around hopeful words and a stoic expression in the face of suffering.

He was a labyrinth disguised as a boy.

And now, here, his eyes locked with R’s, open, vulnerable, and confused and searching and one two three four five six seven eight one two three four five six seven

One two three four

One two

He reached a hand up to rest on the juncture of Enjolras’s neck and shoulder and smiled wanly at him.

“I’m losing it, Apollo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first and foremost [charlie james](http://thecurmudgeon.tumblr.com/) is a superstar and the best beta of my life please send them looove
> 
> second im sorry this took so long and the next one might be a while as well because _exaaaaams_
> 
> also yall should def go listen to [le sud](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FgxwKEuy-pM) for your health
> 
> anyway i love you all let me know how ur feelin about this jam have a lovely night


	3. snowdrift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The thing about Enjolras, R often found himself thinking, was that his relationship with the boy was assumed. His relationship with Enjolras was not his relationship with Enjolras; it was R’s perception of the words unsaid between them, of the many different angles of Enjolras’s bluebell gaze, it was his projection of who he thought Enjolras was and how this Prototype Boy would react to a boy such as R._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _It was easier to see Enjolras as a sort of coin-operated boy, ticking away softly than to understand that he was a living, breathing human person with feelings and opinions._
> 
>  
> 
> some vaguely nsfw stuff in this chap so heads up  
> also how wrong would it have been if i didnt upload anything in exr week

_snowdrift_

  


If there was one thing R knew about, it was sex.

He couldn’t for the life of him sing a single hymn in assembly, he still has no idea what to do with a lunch pass and no one in the entire damn school seemed to be able to explain the concept of prep to him. He was so painfully out of his depth that it was almost a comfort to know he could still fuck about.

His first impression of St. Myriel’s was that there was no way in hell he’d ever be able to get any action. The crowd was full of holier-than-thou, upper-middle class toffs. But it had always been common knowledge that the high and mighty liked a bit of rough, not to mention the sheer amount of repression in the students. God, sometimes R would just have to breathe in the vague direction of their cock and they’d be jizzing all over themselves.

It kept him busy, at least. The little amount of free time he had was spent in other people’s bedrooms, in locked bathroom stalls, and once, in the church, disappointing God. 

He didn’t make a show of it, but he was positive most of the student population knew. Which meant, of course, the Golden Boy himself knew.

Enjolras was behind practically  every corner R turned. He seemed to be awake no matter what hour of the night R slipped back into their room, always with that _look_ on his face. He’d take one glance at R’s wrongly-buttoned shirt, or his missing tie, or the blatant sex-hair he’d taken to sporting and the corners of his mouth would tighten, a flash of something passing across his sharp eyes before he turned away.

To Enjolras’s credit, he hadn’t yet said a word about their late night encounter from a handful of weeks ago. R didn’t think he’d have been able to handle it if he did.

In the unlikely circumstance that R did want to explain his behaviour, he wouldn’t have a single clue where to start.

Like, _“my mum taught me to dance when I was five and it’s one of about three decent memories from my childhood”_?

 _“I feel so numb and empty that just that once, when no one else should have been awake, I wanted to feel movement in body to convince myself that I’m still real”_?

 _“This fucking school is siphoning my soul out through my skin and I don’t feel like myself here-- I’m not sure I know who myself is anymore”_?

Somehow, he doubted that would go down all that well.

He was perfectly content ignoring the Boy Wonder in the bed by the bathroom door.

He never appeared in the margins of notebooks. He never occupied R’s thoughts. He never sat half an inch too close to him at dinner.

 And if he kept telling himself that, maybe one day it’d come true.  
  


 

The set of Enjolras’ shoulders was as tight as the edges of his frown. He’d never especially enjoyed the Saturday outings that Madame Hucheloup planned, mostly because they were tailored to the younger ones’ interests: adventure parks, leisure centres, shopping centres and the like.

Since he’d begun sixth form, he’d decided he was staying in the boarding house on weekends. He needed to give all of his attention to his A-levels.

Apparently, however, school guidelines required him to attend at least three weekend expeditions per school year. Something Javert had very kindly reminded him at breakfast that day.

And so, with absolutely no intention of enjoying himself, Enjolras had put his name down for one activity each term. Fittingly, his winter term excursion was ice-skating.

 He’d bought along his psychology folder in the hopes that he’d be allowed to sit at the sidelines and revise. And, Enjolras guessed, if the staff member on duty had been anyone _but_ Javert, he could have done as he pleased. Instead, he’d earned himself a lecture he’d heard over a hundred times about what his parents were spending their money on and that he should count himself lucky and on and on and _on_.

So he’d strapped on a pair of skates that were a little too big around his toes and let Courfeyrac tug him in figure-eights across the ice. It could have been fun, and under different circumstances, Enjolras could imagine himself trading sparse smiles for honest laughter at Courfeyrac’s jokes and Combeferre’s lack of grace. But as it was, he had three essays to write, revision for mocks and a frankly insane amount of research to be doing. Suffice it to say, he was somewhat preoccupied.

The bus ride home had been relaxing, at least, the sway of the rickety old thing lulling him into a dozy state until Courfeyrac shook his shoulder gently, alerting him that they’d arrived back. And as he’d blinked bleary eyes, he’d caught sight of two familiar figures wandering down the driveway, arms winding around each other slowly, as they kissed in the dim light of the minibus headlights.

A few cat calls started up from the back few seats, accompanied by good natured laughter. His hands curled into tight fists at his sides, but he could hardly look away. His gut twisted, and he couldn’t put a name to the emotion that coursed through him as they broke apart, just a few feet away from his window- close enough that he could make out their grins, almost hear their laughter over the wind- and made their way back to main school.

He’d clutched his messenger bag with white knuckles and rolled the sleeves of his blazer up to his elbows as they filed out of the bus and back into the main school building. He waved off Courfeyrac, calling ahead that he’d catch him up at supper, before slipping into the bathroom.

A tiny gasp slipped past his lips without his permission, and he froze on the spot, gaze transfixed on the sight before him. Really, it was the last thing he needed to see, with the mood he was in.

 Montparnasse, of all people, was arching off the opposite wall, tie loose and the first few buttons of his shirt undone haphazardly. His usually artfully-coiffed hair was a beautiful mess, and the heavy rise and fall of his chest was hypnotizing. Enjolras’ gaze, however, was fixed on Grantaire. On his knees. Between Parnasse’s legs.

Jesus Christ.

Barely a second had passed and Enjolras remained in his trance-like state, gazing at Grantaire, when Montparnasse let out a moan that snapped him awake again.

He looked up at the boy’s face, and their gazes met. Enjolras blushed a violent red right to the tips of his ears, already opening his mouth to apologize and duck out of the room before either one of them killed him- but Parnasse was smirking a gut-twisting smirk, and he rolled his head back, exposing a glorious column of a throat, watching Enjolras through his dark lashes as he moaned Grantaire’s name. For another moment, Enjolras was helplessly transfixed as a deer in the headlights by the tangle of slender fingers in R’s dark curls, the way Montparnasse slowly and deliberately pushed his boot between Grantaire’s legs, and the grateful way that Grantaire ground his hips down against it.

Parnasse’s smile was entrancing, and he arched a brow at Enjolras, swiping his tongue over his cherry lips, the stud in his tongue glinting in the light in such a way that Enjolras had to bite down on his lip firmly.

He fled.

He bolted back to his dorm, eternally grateful that everyone else was at supper as he slung his bag down carelessly and collapsed on his mattress. The ache in his groin was almost impossible to ignore, and he tried to push all irritatingly reasonable thoughts to the back of his mind as he opened up the zipper on his jeans.

  
  
  


R had discovered that the roof was accessible entirely by accident. There was an inconspicuous door by the finance office, unmarked and unlocked. In his constant search for a single place of peace in the whole school, he’d slipped through it without a second thought. It opened onto a dangerously constructed metal fire escape, with another set of steps leading to the flat roof of the main school building.

R had climbed up almost immediately and revelled in the feeling of seeing and not being seen in return.

He had stood at the edge for a long moment, trying and failing to calculate the odds of surviving a fall. Ultimately there was too big a chance of  survival, he decided and sat himself against the red-brick chimney.

 He visited the roof often, he would sit and smoke, sometimes sketch. More often than not, he let the quiet wash over him, letting the cool breeze against his face regulate the speed of his thoughts and breathed in time to the sound of birds in the trees.

This was a version of the school that R could enjoy, from a bird’s eye view. The students were so small and far away that he couldn’t hear their plummy accents, couldn’t see the sneers on their faces. He could just make out their eager skipping to class, or their teasing one another on the fields. It made him feel, just for a moment, like things would be alright. He could be at home here.

It was a bitingly cold afternoon in late November that found R laid back against the cold hard  gravel-top. A cigarette dangled carelessly from his lips, the smoke curling around his lungs soothingly and his hands tucked behind his head, he was so peaceful that he didn’t notice the sound of approaching footsteps until a delicate cough sounded, dangerously close.

He cracked an eye open at the aggressively-polite noise cautiously, only to lay eyes on Enjolras’s frowning face. From upside-down, though, he could almost pretend it was a smile.

 “Can I help you?” he asked.

 Enjolras’s brows knitted together and he folded his arms across his chest. “You can put out that cigarette, for one.”

R scoffed, and took a pointedly long drag, exhaling the smoke through his nostrils.

“‘M alright, cheers, sunshine,” he replied.

Enjolras walked around to R’s front, and with a heavy sigh, R sat up so as to feel a little bit less inferior by height difference.

“Put it out,” Enjolras demanded, “and don’t call me sunshine.”

R rolled his eyes theatrically and took another drag daringly.

“You can’t smoke up here.” 

“Sure I can’t, blondie,” R sighed, getting to his feet to put some distance between the two of them. He meandered to the ledge, watching the doll-sized people live their doll-sized lives.

A huff sounded from behind him. “How unoriginal,” Enjolras drawled.

Grantaire laughed shortly at that. “Unoriginal? Sorry, I’ll step up my game,” he murmured, absently stepping up onto the small ledge of the roof’s perimeter. “Honey butterfly. Sugarplum, angelnose, french fry,” he listed as he took lazy, swinging steps away from the other boy.

If R had been looking, he’d have seen the flash of a smile that passed over the blonde boy’s face. However, R had made it a personal mission to not be looking at Enjolras wherever possible.

“French-- Rene, get down from there,” Enjolras snapped, taking an aborted step in his direction.

“Darling sharon fruit, innocent koi fish, handsome-dashing-sexy and all that,” R continued, raising his voice over the sound of Enjolras’ protestations.

“If you think mocking me is going to make me leave, you’re sorely mistaken, now will you just-- _get down_ ,” Enjolras hissed.

R laughed loudly and added a skip into his step. “I like it up here, labradoodle. Reckon I can see France over there!” he exclaimed, pointing into the distance with an exaggerated gasp.

“I hope you bloody fall,” Enjolras snapped, wandering nearer unconsciously, his hands twitching at his sides nervously.

“Nah,” R responded blithely. “I did ballet when I was four. Got incredible balance, me.”

There was a long silence where Enjolras’s response should have been. R frowned, and turned to check that the boy was still there.

Enjolras was directly behind him, and, on instinct, R tried to move backwards.

Unfortunately, backwards was about half an inch of brick and then thick, wide nothingness.

Before he had time to register anything but the hollow feeling in his stomach, Enjolras’ slender fingers curled in the front of his shirt and yanked him back to safety.

He stumbled once, twice, and fell into Enjolras, his hands coming to rest on his chest.

One two three four five six seven eight.

R’s breath came far too hard and fast between them, Enjolras’s pupils blown too wide. While R’s eyes darted about madly, searching for something-- _anything_ \-- in the other boy’s face, Enjolras’s gaze stayed truly and steadily locked in the chestnut of R’s glittering eyes.

Enjolras, it turned out, was no less confusing in broad daylight than he was in a dark bathroom at three AM. 

“You-” R began, but promptly shut his mouth, licking his dry lips nervously.

His cigarette had burned down to little more than a stub, and fell from R’s fingers carelessly.

“You, um. Thanks,” R murmured before sidestepping his roommate and beelining for the stairs.

Eight steps behind him, Enjolras swallowed thickly, staring out at the spot where R had almost died.

The thing about Enjolras, R often found himself thinking, was that his relationship with the boy was assumed. His relationship with Enjolras was not his relationship with Enjolras; it was R’s perception of the words unsaid between them, of the many different angles of Enjolras’s bluebell gaze, it was his projection of who he thought Enjolras was and how this Prototype Boy would react to a boy such as R.

It was easier to see Enjolras as a sort of coin-operated boy, ticking away softly than to understand that he was a living, breathing human person with feelings and opinions.

That would mean that R could sympathise, that would mean that R might want to explain himself, might open up, might bare his soul to a stranger with blonde eyelashes and freckled cheekbones.

Vulnerability was dangerous.

So he didn’t talk to anyone. He didn’t risk friendship. The only person he could trust was himself. And wasn’t that a terrifying thought?.

  
  
  


Winter was fast approaching, a brisk chill in the air biting at everyone’s skin. Jack Frost carding his fingers through their hair as they walked from building to building, students half-consciously pulling their blazers closer around themselves.

The days were growing shorter, and so was Enjolras’s patience. The darker the afternoons got, the darker his mood became. The colder the weather, the colder his attitude.

 For the change in season surely meant the rapid approach of Christmas holidays. Which, in turn, meant going home to his parents, who all had plenty to say about his attitude and his report cards, alongside that familiar holiday racism and thinly-veiled classicism.

Slowly, over the recent week, students had started to thin out in the halls, and each classroom felt emptier and emptier. There were fewer students replying “present” to the register than were being accounted for with a “gone home!” from one of their mates.

Assemblies grew sparse, and students began to sit wherever they wanted on pews just to fill out the space. Which, in retrospect, would be how he and R ended up sat on opposite ends of a pew three rows back with approximately fourteen other students in the hall.

It was there that he learned exactly what R’s singing voice sounded like.

Most of the time, when he looked across the pew at R in assembly, he wasn’t even pretending to sing, the hymn book held limply at his side as he stared down at his shoes. And chances were he wouldn’t end up stood anywhere near the boy. They were in separate form groups, and though the school was small, the hall could comfortably fit around two hundred people. Statistically, his chances were low.

Until the end of term. Until now. Until they were singing carols that R actually knew the words to.

R’s voice had always stood out. The majority of the St Myriel's population were from the south, were all posh and plummy with long “aah” sounds and pronounced scone like “cone”, and had reasons in their daily conversations to talk about scones.

So when R had shown up, grumbling about being “gasping for a tab” and ducking into the “ginnel” behind the church, he’d stuck out like a sore thumb from the very first register that he’d replied “aye” to.

To R’s credit, he hadn’t tampered down his regional accent the way self-conscious Joly had. On his first day in year seven, Joly had worn his Welsh accent with a prideful grin, but teen boys could be incredibly cruel. Six years down the line and Joly had nothing more than a sing-song lilt to his tone.

Hearing R’s hard-edged voice set to “Angels We Have Heard on High” was curiously beautiful. He could hold a note, his voice strong and sustained and clear, sharply cutting through the organ music that filled the hall.

Enjolras barely realised that he’d been staring until the song closed, and R’s voice faded into silence. He swallowed thickly, and turned his gaze to the polished wood flooring.

“Thank you, please sit down,” Valjean instructed from the podium.

Enjolras snapped his hymn book shut quickly and dropped back down to his seat on the pew. Throughout the remainder of assembly, his gaze unwittingly floated across to R’s profile, his riot of knotty curls, his sunken eyes and their faraway look. Each time, he caught himself, and forced his attention back to Valjean at the front of the room, leading a perfectly boring assembly on Saint Stephen’s day.

Even reciting the Lord’s prayer, Enjolras found himself unsuccessfully trying to seek out R’s voice. Enjolras added “doesn’t know the Lord’s prayer” to the end of the list of things he knew about R. The list was pitifully short, and Enjolras had to stop himself from searching out new information.

Bad news. R was bad news.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope this cleared some stuff up for yall??
> 
> also if anyone cares r is from like the stockton area
> 
> let me know how yall are feelin about this and if u have anything u want to see hmu


	4. lucidity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Enjolras bit his lip. You weren’t supposed to wake people up from nightmares, right? Or maybe that was sleepwalking. Fuck it._
> 
>  
> 
> _He reached out a hand, slender fingers brushing his bare shoulder for a moment before curling over his bicep and squeezing gently, shaking him ever so slightly._
> 
>  
> 
> _At the contact, R bolted upright, flinging the duvet aside carelessly. Enjolras sat back to avoid being whacked up the face, studying R’s face. He was unreadable. He shouldn’t have expected any less._  
> 

 

 

Enjolras had always been a light sleeper. A fly landing on his window ledge could’ve awoken him on the worst of nights. He was always the first to rise and the last to drift off. It really should have come as no surprise when he woke at one fifty six to muffled sound of aborted breaths, the rustle of blankets and --

“Get the fuck away from me...”

Enjolras’ first thought was that someone else was in their room, and he jerked upright, looking about the cluttered room urgently, but everything was still in the dark, everyone was in bed.

Frowning, he scrubbed a palm over his face.

Then, again:

“Don’t touch m--”

The sentence was cut off by a soft gasp, and the vaguely scratchy pull of blankets against sheets.

There was no mistaking the harsh, low “owh” sound. Standing up slowly, Enjolras made his way over to R’s bed. He wouldn’t have bought someone back to bed in a communal bedroom, would he?

“Pl- _ease_ ,” R gasped, his voice cracking.

Enjolras hovered over his bed. R was alone.

R was crying.

“R,” Enjolras whispered, his brow furrowed, and crouched down by the bed.

The breathing was starting to get worryingly fast.

Enjolras bit his lip. You weren’t supposed to wake people up from nightmares, right? Or maybe that was sleepwalking. Fuck it.

He reached out a hand, slender fingers brushing his bare shoulder for a moment before curling over his bicep and squeezing gently, shaking him ever so slightly.

At the contact, R bolted upright, flinging the duvet aside carelessly. Enjolras sat back to avoid being whacked up the face, studying R’s face. He was unreadable. He shouldn’t have expected any less.

“Are you okay?” he asked after a long moment.

R wouldn’t look at him. He stared ahead, eyes wide. His breath came hard and fast; his forehead glinting with a sheen of sweat in the starlight that peeked through the curtains.

He licked his lips, opening his mouth as though to reply, but no words came.

“R?” Enjolras murmured, leaning forward slightly.

At that, R shook his head violently, and all but leapt off the bed, striding across the floor to slip into the bathroom. Enjolras heard the bolt slide shut and the pipes begin to creak and moan.

At a loss, he pushed himself to his feet and stood, in the middle of the dark room.

He approached the bathroom door, coming to a stop an inch before it, his face lit by the light escaping from the doorjambs. He raised a hand to the doorknob, hovering just a hair’s-breadth from touching it. He pulled his hand back and curled his fingers into a fist with a heavy sigh.

Without fully understanding why, he lowered himself to the hardwood floor, leaning against the wall beside the bathroom, and waited.

  
  
  


R’s breath felt like it was being torn from his lungs, his heartbeat felt like a jackhammer behind his ribs, and as he leaned over the porcelain sink, his trembling hands holding him upright by its edges, he thought for a brief moment that he was going to throw up everything he’d eaten in the last week.

He met his gaze in the mirror and quickly turned away.

God fucking fuck, he looked like a ghost on heroin.

He pushed his hair away from his face, holding it back and breathing for a second. He couldn’t handle this, he’d thought he could, but here everything was worse, everything was magnified, everyone’s voices were louder, the reprimands cut deeper, the food was more sour.

A sob caught in his throat, and he quickly pressed his free hand to his mouth to muffle the sound.

He’d woken up Enjolras.

He wasn’t going to pretend that Enjolras didn’t know he was fucked up, but up until now, he’d aimed to keep the details hidden from his sight.

Now he knew. Not everything, but R was slowly getting clearer to Enjolras, and it scared him to no end. He didn’t know if he was ready to be seen.

His eyes stung with sharp, salty tears, and he swallowed hard around the pathetic noises rising in his throat. He blinked tightly, aiming to hold his tears behind his eyelids until the aching fear inside of him died away. Instead, he sent them spilling hopelessly down his cheeks and immediately furrowed his brow in anger at himself. A whimper escaped his lips, the noise cushioned by his fingers, but still all too loud for R’s ears.

Everything ached. His throat ached, hollow and tight. His stomach ached, roiling fear and anger and sadness, and so much _pain_ ceaselessly turning over in his gut. His head ached, at his temples, behind his eyes, at the very back of his head, a sharp and indescribable yearning for peace slicing through his skull.

Another helpless sob choked its way out of his mouth, and R let go of his hair to cover his mouth with both hands. Shaking legs lowered him to the cold, linoleum floor.

His breath left his chest like a panicked bird was beating her wings behind his ribcage.

One two three

One

He couldn’t form the numbers in his head, everything was moving too fast; a sharp pair of green eyes looking right at him whenever he blinked, thick fingers gripping whichever part of his body he was too aware of at the time, harsh words cutting through his own thoughts if he wasn’t focussed enough--

One two three four five

Two three four

One two

Soft, aborted sobs punched their way out of him as he lowered his head to his knees.

In all R had known, in everything he’d endured, he didn’t think he’d ever felt so alone as he did now.

  
  
  


Enjolras waited. And waited. Long shadows passed over the room from behind the thin curtains; outside, a fox cried.

He didn’t let himself look at the alarm clock. He wouldn’t allow himself to count away R’s suffering, his own helplessness. Time meant nothing at that moment. Only dark shadows and cool breezes.

When R emerged, some drunken shouts and owl hoots later, his eyes were scarlet and downcast, a crumpled tissue held tight in his left hand.

He jumped at the sight of Enjolras, leaning up against the wall, legs splayed, hands fidgeting.

“What are you-” he began, but couldn’t seem to manage to finish the question.

Enjolras stood up, pressing his lips together and shrugged.

“It’s late,” he replied simply, nodding towards their beds.

R opened his mouth to respond, staring at Enjolras like he’d just asked him to solve the fucking da vinci code.

Enjolras tried a smile on, and settled himself back down on his bed. R hovered in the bathroom doorway for a moment, glancing between Enjolras and the bathroom door. When he finally retreated to his own bed, Enjolras could feel the tension in the room like a surge of electricity.

“Did you know,” he began, after an uncomfortably long silence, “that in ancient Greece, to show someone you liked them, you’d throw an apple at their head?”

R’s brow furrowed.

“Fucking,” he began, turning his head to look at Enjolras, “What?”

“I know, right? It’s so bizarre, like, ‘I’m into you, have some brain damage’,” Enjolras laughed at his own joke under his breath.

“No, I mean, _what?_ ” R continued, leaning up on one elbow.

Enjolras rolled onto his side. “Hm?”

“What-- what are you doing?” R asked, eyes searching.

“I-- uh.” Enjolras frowned. “Talking?”

He didn’t say it, but the “ _why_ ” hangs terse in the air between them.

“I think,” Enjolras began, but froze up.

R arched a brow. “You think?”

Enjolras swallowed and drew a deep breath. He recalled the desperately helpless sobs he’d heard from R as he slept, remembered his red-rimmed eyes, the half-words he’d plead in his sleep. He couldn’t let it be.

“I think it was technically considered a marriage proposal? And if the person caught the apple, then that was considered a, you know, a yes to that.”

Silence.

“That kind of makes sense,” R piped up.

Enjolras wasn’t sure when it had stopped, but his heart started beating again.

“As in, you know. On their wedding nights in ancient Greece, couples would eat an apple as a symbol of, you know,” he cleared his throat like it was slightly uncomfortable to say, “love.”

“Really?” Enjolras asked with an interested quirk to his brow. “I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah. And on the supposed wedding of Thetis and Peleus, like in mythology and that, Eris -- who was the goddess of conflict, a completely necessary figurehead -- she didn’t get invited, and was so incredibly pissed about it that she came up with this… elaborate plot, right? So the three famously beautiful goddesses were at the wedding, Athena, Ahprodite and-- and, um, Hera. So Eris, being great at stirring shit up as goddess of conflict, she’s like, how can I fuck with this wedding with all these gorgeous people there? And she decides, she--she carves onto an apple, she carves on it, ‘To the most beautiful one’ and just fucking tosses it into the party,” R paused his rambling speech to chuckle at that. Enjolras’s heart reacted very confusingly to that. “So there’s this big fight between everyone there about who this apple was for, and-- it’s ridiculous, but I guess apples were always a thing in ancient Greece. Kind of makes sense.”

That was the most Enjolras had heard R say all term. It ached in something Enjolras hadn’t known was a part of him.

“That does make sense,” Enjolras replied, and even to his own ears, his voice didn’t sound quite right. He cleared his throat. “You know a lot about Greek mythology.”

R shifted.

“Yeah, my mam’s Greek,” he replied, and his voice was quiet.

Enjolras licked his lips and turned his head to face R.

The boy was looking straight up at the ceiling, his face blank and unreadable.

“Are you excited to see her again?” Enjolras asked softly.

“Hm?”

“Christmas holiday?”

“Oh, no, I’m not going home.”

Enjolras sat up, his brow furrowed. “Sorry, what?”

“I’m staying here for the holiday,” R replied, as though it were the most normal thing in the world.

“That’s not-- no one  does that,” Enjolras frowned. “Well, I mean. No one’s ever done that before,” he amended.

“Really? I-- Fantine said it would be fine,” R replied curiously, phrasing it as a question to himself.

The mention of Fantine’s name brought some sense to the situation. If anyone were willing to sacrifice their own holiday to take care of someone who couldn’t go back home, it would be Fantine. She was such an achingly selfless soul, never put herself before a single person.

Enjolras didn’t ask why he couldn’t go home, why he wasn’t going to spend Christmas with his family. He wanted to, so desperately, he wanted to know if it had anything to do with his earlier nightmare. 

But instead, he offered in a small voice, “I suppose there’s a first time for everything.”

The night went on, and they talked. R didn’t say half as much as he had when rambling about Greece, but he seemed less closed off to Enjolras.

Enjolras talked R into a light, fitful sleep. Enjolras, for his part, was sure he’d feel guilty if he let himself close his eyes any longer than to blink.

  
  
  
  


It seemed to R that St. Myriel’s was actually a very elaborate joke that everyone but him was in on. Prep, he had discovered through time, was extra school after school before he was allowed to go to bed, but rather was forced to sit and do work. And apparently, he needed to attend it at least twice a week, despite being a full-grown adult with autonomy and a fully-functioning, decision-making brain.

But at least he knew what prep _was_ now. Recently, however, he’d been informed of another necessary activity that he’d somehow managed to avoid. Up until now.

Apparently, one of his study periods was not to be spent in the sixth form block, but in the food tech department, learning “student cooking”, as if he had never had to cook for himself before. There was no exam or assessment whatsoever, R didn’t see the point of it at all.

He found himself at a small work-surface across from two overly-excitable boys wearing matching dinosaur ties.

“I’m so ready to make mac and cheese,” the taller one was bouncing on his toes.

“Oh hell yeah, I’ve got some goddamn bacon to put in there,” the tiny Asian boy replied, and the other made an incredibly sexual noise in response, “some _leeks_ ,” it was possible the tall one orgasmed at that, “ _broccoli-”_

“Is that your honest-to-God reaction to vitamin E?” R couldn’t help but cut in.

They both turned to him like he’d grown an extra head. And like, seven extra arms.

" _Dude_ ,” they both leaned across the work surface in unsettling synchronicity.

“Have you ever had some good ass broccoli florets fried with bacon in a little bit of butter, seasoned good? Toss that in your omelette, and your world will be _changed_ , I’m telling you.”

R couldn’t stop the small smile passing his lips briefly.  

“I’ll try it sometime,” he nodded vaguely, and picked the recipe sheet up from the worktop. It was irritatingly vague, as if R was expected to know this shite. He wasn’t a chef, he knew you put this in the pan for this long and then you’ve got carbonara, what the fuck was a ‘roux’?

“Hey, what’s a roux?” he asked across the bench after a second.

The tiny boy smiled, and rested his chin in his hands. “Say that again?”

R’s brow twitched. “Uhm. What’s a roux?”

“God, your accent is just lovely. _Roux,_ ” he imitated, and moved on before R could protest that, “it’s just a white sauce. Flour, butter and milk.”

R waited a second for the other one to drop.

“Right. Thanks,” he cleared his throat when no punchline came.

“I’m Joly, by the way,” the boy grinned. One of his teeth was crooked.

“I’m R,” R replied, instinctively.

“That’s Bossuet, I think he has English lit with you,” Joly nodded towards the other boy, who had just hit himself in the face with a red-checkered tea towel.

“I think I’d remember him. Different sets, probably,” he replied with half a smile as he pulled up a set of scales.

“Yeah, maybe,” Joly smiled, and turned the burner on.

R did much the same. The smile didn’t leave his face for very long that afternoon.

  
  


Courfeyrac was doing Enjolras’s hair. Eight times out of ten, he didn’t have the time or enough effort to do it himself, and just pulled it back in a ponytail. Besides, he really didn’t know how to go about styling it and Courf had better products.

It was soothing. Rarely did he get the chance to just do nothing. He sighed into the touch of Courf’s short fingers combing over his scalp, massaging in some kind of oil, maybe. He wasn’t sure. It smelled sweet and slightly metallic, and Courf was humming softly behind him on the bed.

It was only six, but it was already pitch black outside, the heaters in the room on at the highest setting. The room was washed over with warm orange lamplight, Courfeyrac in soft pyjamas patterned with little penguins wearing bobble hats, and Enjolras in red plaid flannel.

Courfeyrac reached over for a comb and sprayed something in a mist over Enjolras’s head, and he sneezed softly.

“Fey,” he murmured.

“Mhm?” Courfeyrac replied around the lip trapped between his teeth, all his focus on combing out Enjolras’s curls.

“Do you ever worry about R?”

For a long moment, there was no response. He didn’t stop combing.

“Worry about him how?”

Enjolras tipped his head to the side, allowing Courf better access. “He’s smart. He’s talented. But he’s just not … trying.”

Courfeyrac hummed thoughtfully. “Academic success isn’t everything, you know that.”

“Of course I do. But Javert is ripping into him, everyone acts like he’s some kind of idiot, it’s not really fair on him.”

“First time you’ve talked about R like you might not hate him and everything he stands for,” Courfeyrac commented, not angry, not judging, just noting with interest.

Enjolras shrugged and leaned his neck back into the bracket of Courfeyrac’s legs.

 “He’s confusing,” he replied, after a long moment’s thought. “Doesn’t mean he deserves this kind of shit.”

“He smokes.”

“You bite your nails. Everyone has bad habits.”

“Yeah, you’ve never thrown my fingernails out of a window, though.”

“You’re such a wanker,” Enjolras laughed softly, leaning his head out of Courf’s touch.

Courfeyrac shoved him softly and got up for some other product. Enjolras adjusted the pillow he was sat on and stretched out his long legs, flexing his toes in boredom.

“You know,” he called through to Courf in the bathroom, “he can sing.”

“Yeah, Ferre said,” Courf appeared in the doorway, rubbing something into his palms and stepping further into the room to comb his hands through Enjolras’s hair. It smelled of papaya. “In French, apparently.”

Enjolras hummed and leaned into his hands. “And he’s part Greek.”

A small line appeared between Courf’s brows.

“You know a lot about him, huh?”

Enjolras opened his mouth to respond, something indignant, no doubt, but before he could, the door burst open.

“...No, I get that, but if it’s not just textbooks, why can’t you just go to the one in town? How is there even room, I have so many questions,” R was saying.

Combeferre laughed. “I mean it’s not like a county-grade library, they don’t stock that many.”

“What are you guys talking about?” Courfeyrac piped up, resting his chin in his palms.

“So,” R began, with the air of a man who’d just discovered that magic was real after all and had witnessed someone levitating a donkey, “turns out you fuckers have a _library_? In your _school?_ ”

“Don’t all schools?” Courfeyrac asked, a furrow in his brow.

R looked at him with eyes the size of dish plates.

“Yeah, _primary_ schools. When you’re learning to _read_ ,” and he sounded like everything in his life was a sham.

Enjolras hid a laugh behind a hand. R turned to him swiftly and raked a hand through his hair, sending curls all askew. Enjolras tried not to stare.

“No, explain this to me, Apollo, there’s a library… _just_ around the corner, like, a ten minute walk - if that! Probably closer to like, seven and half minutes if you’re in shape, but your rich ass school is like ‘ah no pet, that’s too far for our teenage middle-class legs, let’s fuckin-- build one into the school building’, how does that make any fucking sense to yous- why are you laughing?”

“It’s…” Enjolras pressed his lips together to try and get himself to stop. “It’s an educational building, it makes sense to have books on hand, right?”

R scrubbed a hand over his face and let out a noise that Enjolras did not think he would ever be able to describe or recreate.

“There are book in the English rooms though! Which is … the only subject that you really need books for? Other than textbooks, which they _give_ you! We don’t need to have fucking Twilight on hand!”

R sounded somewhat like he was uncovering an intense conspiracy theory about the government. Courfeyrac had given up on hiding his laughter and had thrown his head back to laugh concerningly loudly at that.

“No, but this isn’t a joke,” R insisted, “I’m honestly so confused, where do you even hide a fucking library in your school?”

Enjolras snorted unattractively. “It’s by the French room. Red door?”

R’s eyes opened even wider. “ _That’s_ a fucking _library_?”

Courfeyrac was nearly crying from laughter, but slung an arm across R’s shoulders, promising to show it to him the next day. R didn’t flinch away from the touch, and a smile was playing at the corners of his mouth. The wind battered at their window, and the smell of Courfeyrac’s hair products lingered in the air. Things were seeming significantly less terrible than before.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um??? im alive who the fuck knew????? sorry this has been so fucking long life happened i gotta apply to unis and shit its mental
> 
> but let me know how you guys are fuckin doing yo its been a hot second 
> 
> not betad at all im sure you can tell let me know how shit it is in the comments luv yall

**Author's Note:**

> so ive read boarding school fics before that are so inaccurate it physically hurts me?? so as a student at a boarding school whose mother is head of boarding, i decided to throw my few cents in there
> 
> let me know if youre digging this and want more bc im really lazy like holy shit 
> 
> and im over [here](http://flowersinxeirhair.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you want to say hey thatd be chill


End file.
